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GWYN

The gun grows heavier in my hand every time the melody on my phone plays. It’s probably just the horny demon butt dialing me by mistake, and there’s no way I can hear him blow his load in Dahlia’s mouth and still come back to this moment.

It won’t be right. All momentum will have passed, and I’ll be more disgusted with what I heard than I am with myself.

But now I’m thinking about that, and without even answering, I fear the moment has already passed.

There’s always another moment though, lurking just around the corner, ready to latch onto whatever self-flagellating thought I have next. There are plenty, as usual, so I just have to bide my time.

I really shouldn’t have a gun, but Sasha insisted for my self defense, and Hale actually believed me when I said I was fine. But that’s what happens when you have suicidal friends.

They lie.

It was so easy for me to lie to Roman because if I’m not lying about something to someone, I’m just not living.

With a sigh, I put the firearm back in the nightstand, and close the drawer.

I’m not going to fucking kill myself now.

I’m deflated. My anger has withered like fresh cut blooms left in a vase too long.

Bright and fragrant, my anger had bloomed quickly.

But just like flowers ripped from the soul, my rage has shriveled away without proper tending.

And without the fury, my impulse to take that final initiative has passed.

Fucking demon with his goddamn blowjob.

Now that I have a moment to think, I worry about Zuul. How long would it take for someone to find him? And what would they do with him? He’s snoring loudly, oblivious to my plight, and his all-black coat gleams in the lamp’s glow.

My phone rings again, and I’m about to give the demon a piece of my mind, when I see the number on the screen.

From the minute I started stalking him, or “Uno reversed” him as Hale calls it, I had Roman’s number memorized.

I never saved it, but I knew it from the jump.

Just like I knew Hale’s by heart during my early teens, when I’d balanced my training with standard eighth grade bullshit about cute boys and mean girls and strict teachers.

Just like the number of the girl who I had a nasty friend breakup with, and I’m certain was actually my bi-awakening.

It’s always been strangely easy for me to memorize phone numbers.

And this one, with its familiar Chicago area code, belongs to Roman.

I almost don’t answer, but I decide I’m just pissed off enough to do it because Roman has thwarted my self-indulgence once again.

“Normal people are asleep at this time,” I snap upon answering.

“Did you know about Kayla?”

His tone is surprisingly mild, not full of the accusation I would expect for such a question. In my next life, maybe I’ll think before I speak. Maybe I’ll realize that there is no reason for him to ask me this except to find something to blame me for.

“Eventually, yes.”

“Did you look into it? Did you try to follow up on the missing girl?”

“Well, no, but…” He swears, and I hear Margot speaking in the background, and she sounds almost panicked. “What happened?”

“I think you know what happened, Gwyn. The better question is why do you care? It’s just another person’s blood on your hands.”

“Wait a min?—”

But he’s already hung up.

I should leave it. I shouldn’t respond, and I should let him think the worst of me.

Really, it would be better for everyone if he hated me and killed me for it.

He’d feel better; I’d be dead. Everyone would move on.

But instead, I type and delete the same message a few different times.

I’m not trying to pass the blame, but for some reason, this feels important.

Gwyn

The spell Hale used to knock Remy out had him down for three days. We didn’t know, and by the time he told Sasha, there were no leads.

Roman

So you gave up?

I don’t answer for a moment, debating on if I should light the match.

For a moment, I think of lying to save face, but what’s the point?

If I’d been brutally honest with Roman from the start, maybe I would have gotten my revenge and he’d have burned everything down alongside me.

Maybe I wouldn’t be here, with a friend who won’t speak to me, a sister who’s run away, a coven I don’t care about, and an ancient vampire father who I’ve failed to kill.

Gwyn

What would you have done if my dad needed your help after he killed your mother? I’m all ears.

Roman

I wouldn’t have done anything because I was six, Gwyn.

Gwyn

You’re being pedantic.

You’re telling me if he killed her right now, you’d bend over backwards to help him?

He types for a minute, and then the bubble disappears. I smirk, satisfied that I must have gotten my point across. But then a voice memo comes through, and a knot twists in my stomach. I stare at it, wondering what exactly he could have said in fifty-six seconds that has made my blood run cold.

When I press play, I drop the phone because it’s so fucking loud in the quiet bedroom.

For a second, I can’t tell what it is, but then I realize it’s Remy.

Deep, heart-wrenching sobs sound almost inhuman as they come through my speaker, and I hate Roman for allowing me to hear it.

But it only lasts a second or two as he covers the speaker and seemingly walks away from his brother.

“Do you remember the night you chose not to tell me Remy was alive, but helped explain his depression to me? Because I do. And I find it pretty fucking hard to believe that the Gwyn who knew the exact spectrum of Remy’s sadness didn’t give a fuck about the girl he nearly died to save.”

Not for the first time, I consider that I should have pushed harder about the missing girl. But I had no intention of going on a fool’s errand on behalf of the man who killed two people I love. How could I try to save her when I couldn’t save my parents? When I couldn’t save myself?

I crawl into bed, not bothering with the light, wondering how I could possibly think I’m any better than the people I sought to destroy.

Gwyn

Hale fucking bailed on me.

My vision is blurry as I look at the text I sent to Sasha.

When Hale had told me to meet him at Sanguivita to ring in the New Year, I’d been confused.

But then I found out I wasn’t welcome at Last Drop, thanks to the whole ‘stole the coven and pissed off all the vampires’ thing, and it made sense.

So the plan was for him to go to Last Drop first, where Nico wanted to go, before meeting me at Sanguivita.

Sanguivita has cocktails with silver in them, and I’m on my fourth one.

I’m grateful for it, because at least it means I can get drunk.

But what doesn’t make sense is the fact that it’s eleven fucking thirty, I’m shaved and showered and dressed to the goddamn nines, and I’m sitting in a dark corner, drunk, making small talk with a demon.

And Hale, according to his shared location, is still at Last Drop.

I know I should just go back to the penthouse, but it feels like a waste. Especially as this demon sits beside me and tells me how hot I am. Even sad girls like to feel sexy.

And as he adjusts his collar and gestures toward his neck, I think he’s done a spectacular job of it. What he’s offering feels like a boon, and I can’t help but partake in it.

The moment his blood hits my tongue, I think that I’ve made a mistake.

But then the high hits me, and I nearly groan with pleasure.

This is exactly what I needed. As I lave at the demon’s neck and drink from his flesh, the taste is a familiar danger—and I don’t care.

The club is busy. Bodies writhe on the dance floor beneath red lighting, sensuous and endless, heedless of their surroundings.

Some vampires sit on black leather furniture around the perimeter of the room while loud, bass-house music makes the speakers tremble.

I allow myself to float away as my head lolls against the seat.

I don’t know how long I relax there as the demon recovers beside me.

He draws intricate designs with his fingertip on my thigh.

Soft, diaphanous curtains twirl in a gentle breeze nearby, giving an illusion of privacy.

But around the room, couples engage in acts that I can’t stare at for too long without being considered a voyeur.

The room is full of vampires with senses far more receptive than any living being; sweat and blood and arousal scents the air, and it mixes into a heady elixir—one that leads to an escape that can’t come soon enough.

Perhaps being born of a vampire and a hunter is the reason I’ve always craved places like this.

Drinking lowers inhibitions and dancing is a form of foreplay: a sneak peek into the way a body might grind upon another in a darkened room.

Finding the rhythm with another person is a way to test compatibility.

Sex is the ultimate sensory experience, and no one can feel it more fully than a vampire or a hunter. In an environment like this, it’s easy to get lost in it.

With Roman in control of the coven, I’m not surprised to see familiar vampires here, back to their old haunts. But if they recognize me, they say nothing. There are other vampires too, uncommitted to the Chicago coven, and maybe I pass as one of them.

I’m thinking too much, and I’d rather not be. The demon must read my mind because he stops his gentle stroking and leans over me. Light brown hair falls into his face, and I wish it was a buzz cut.

“I’ll be ready for you again in a minute,” he says, dipping low into my line of sight. I don’t move, looking at him through slitted eyes, and I hope he doesn’t plan on leaving before I can drink from him again. This shit is far better than weed.